


Hiatus

by rozozzy



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, POV Second Person, Sacrifice Chloe Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozozzy/pseuds/rozozzy
Summary: You are the only survivor. You search for the last bit of hope you have to save someone other than yourself.You need to travel back in time, one last time.





	

You take the photograph because she gives it to you. You undo everything because she asks you to, not because you actually want to. You transcend time. You hide in the bathroom. You coward. You do nothing and you say nothing and you let her die.

You monster.

In the reality you leave behind, winds shred into buildings and thunder cracks through the air and raindrops pellet the ground like nature's ammunition. In the reality you leave behind, bodies are crushed and limp, mothers are calling out for their children, and babies are lost or dead or both.

But in the reality you leave behind, she is still alive. She is all that matters to you, and you are leaving her behind.

You enter a new reality, one where you're standing on top of the cliff and looking down into the ocean, storm absent as warm sunlight slices through the atmosphere.

You're wearing the same clothes as you wore in the previous reality. They're still soggy and cold and _wait, that isn't right_. You turn around and find that everything is destroyed; the lighthouse is broken in half and buildings have collapsed onto themselves and cars are piled against each other, one after the other. The streets are dead and the people are too, and you realize that you're all that's left.

You reach for your bag, but it isn't there. You check your pockets, but they're empty. The photograph is your last chance to fix things, to save her, and it's nowhere to be found.

You crumple to the ground and you scream. You lie there for hours. Your screams echo throughout the silent skies of Arcadia Bay.

* * *

The reporters and rescue teams arrive within a few hours. You watch them from above as they scramble down below, and you contemplate whether or not you should go down there. You go. Perhaps there are survivors, and perhaps they can help you find what you're looking for, without even meaning to.

* * *

There are no survivors. Only you.

* * *

You start with Blackwell.

It seems like the practical choice; after all, Blackwell is where you once lived and where the photo had been taken. You sleep in a car that's half-crushed, but it'll do. You live off of canned foods and dried jerky from the supermarket down the street, which is structurally sound enough for you to forage for supplies. You retrace your steps and scope every place you visited in the previous reality, and every place you might have visited in this one. Every night you're covered in scratches and scars and bruises, from falling pieces of ceiling or from moving chunks of debris.

It's been a week. You come up empty. The rescue teams have given up. You haven't.

It doesn't matter if this takes the rest of your life. You will not stop. You will get your hands on that photograph, or die trying.

* * *

Your family finds you.

They tell you that they saw you on the news, and they insist that you come back to Seattle. You tell them you can't, that you must keep searching, and when they ask "for what?" you tell them "peace of mind." They remind you that you are the last lingering thread of Arcadia Bay, that no else survived, and you tell them that you _need_ this.

You do not yield, so they relent.

* * *

You get an apartment in a neighboring city. You get two jobs. Full-time cashier, part-time waitress. You save up for a bike, and then you save up for a car. Your family texts you every morning and calls you every night to make sure you're okay. You tell them that you are fine even though you are not. You can't involve them. You don't want to.

You can't search Arcadia Bay every day, even though you would like to. You need to eat, rest, work. You need to save your energy and not burn out like an eager flame, save your strength for when you really need it.

The weekends are your only chance, so your entire weekends are spent in Arcadia Bay. It slows down your progress far more than you realize, but it's the only way. You scrape your way through broken glass and fight your way through heaps of rubble. Day after day after day. You move forward despite the sight and stench of rotting corpses and dried blood caking the streets. You fall and you bleed and you break bones, but you pick yourself up and you keep walking.

You're doing this for you as much as you're doing this for her.

* * *

The days are long but the nights are worse. You cry yourself to sleep thinking about her, and you cry when you wake up dreaming about her. How long has it been? You don't know. You don't pay attention to time anymore. You're so detached from reality that all you can do is keep going. You just keep going and going and going and going and going and going—

* * *

You run through your mental checklist.

Blackwell. Chloe's. Two Whales. American Rust. Beach. Lighthouse. Dark room.

Nothing.

You take a long swig of water from your canteen and then run it over your calloused, dirty hands.

Time to double check.

* * *

You don't even realize five years have passed until your mother sends you a new polaroid camera, wishing you a happy 23rd birthday. It's one of those modern remakes, where the instant film is a fraction of the size and the feel for it is just not the same. You put it on a shelf and you don't touch it. It's not because you're ungrateful or even because you don't like it.

You're not ready. You can't even remember the last time you took a photograph. It's been ages. You used to love pointing the camera at your face and decorating every inch of your room with your self-image. Now, you can't even look at yourself in the mirror.

The person you used to be and the person you are now are separated by a lifetime.

* * *

It's raining on the day you find the photograph.

Smoky clouds darken Arcadia Bay in a dusty sheet, and lightning comes and goes in spontaneous bursts as echoing thunder trails behind. You stand in the middle of an intersection, your damp clothes weighing you down, your cold socks squishing with every uncomfortable step. You don't bother getting back in your car for shelter. You continue just as you always do, assessing corpses and vehicles and buildings and open areas.

You are at the beach, watching the waves hiss and crash against the shore in violent, sweeping motions. It's deadly but mesmerizing. You tread along the shoreline, careful not to get too close but daring to get close enough. You sit down and let the fringes of the water nip at your numbing fingertips.

And then it's there, washed up on the sand as you sit there, entranced by the storm.

Just like that.

You can't believe it. You take a moment to stare at it, awestruck. As the receding waves start to rise, you snatch it and bolt upright. It's soggy and faded, but it could work. This could work. Your fingers tremble and your heart accelerates and you're terrified that it might slip out of your grasp and into the waiting arms of a watery abyss.

You head back to your car and lock the doors, letting yourself soak in the front seat. You draw long, quivering breaths before taking another glance at it. This is it. This is the real deal.

You concentrate on the photo, and as the world begins to blur around you, you think that the sounds of the rain and wind and thunder are almost soothing.

* * *

As soon as you save her, you tear the photograph.

You aren't going to let yourself make the same mistake again.

* * *

You find yourself staring at framed picture of her holding you in her arms, a wedding band on both of your fingers. You blink. Your clothes are soft and dry, your hair fluffy and clean, your body flushed with warmth. You can feel both dread and anticipation shake you at your core, because you don't know what will happen when you face the other direction. You give yourself a moment. You swallow.

You turn around and see her, hair faded at the roots but still mostly blue, a new tattoo of a skull on the back of her neck, her back turned as she sits at her desk, writing some things down on a piece of paper.

You can't go to her fast enough.

You wrap your arms around her so firmly you have to remind yourself to ease up, or you could accidentally hurt her.

"C-Chloe," is all you can choke out before your voice cuts off, and you collapse into an emotional mess right in front of her. Your sobs are hoarse and ugly, and she catches you as you fall to your knees, and she brings you down to the floor gently.

"Max?" she says, and _god_ it feels so good to hear her voice again.

You want to smile because she's here, with you, and you two are here in this space, existing together. You want to smile because you can't believe this is real, that she is real, alive and real, that this is your reality and her reality and that it's both of your realities together. You want to smile because you've missed her. But at the same time, you can't stop yourself from coughing up tears.

"Y-you're alive," you say through staggered puffs.

That's all you need to say for her to understand, because she _gets it._ You know she does.

* * *

She fills you in on the gaps of a life you never experienced, and you fill her in on your journey back to her. She holds you through those nights you have trouble sleeping, and you hold her through those nights when she forgets that the you she's been with for the past five years isn't the you she is with right now.

Sometimes you feel like a fraud. You stole the life of an alternate you so you can selfishly replace her and continue her life for yourself. You get to touch and kiss and love Chloe, and you get to be touched and kissed and loved by her. It's as if the person you replaced never existed.

"You may not have the same memories," she tells you on a night when you feel like you don't belong, "but you're still Max. You always will be. I can feel it."

"You… mean that?"

She presses her lips to your forehead and smiles. "Just trust me on this, okay?"

You can't trust yourself. You've made too many mistakes, created too much regret and doubt to believe in your own actions anymore. You don't know if you'll ever trust yourself again.

But you can trust her.

_Fin._


End file.
